A New England Indian In The Pirate City of Nassau
by MariSkep
Summary: Jupiter drops Connor and the Aquila into the Golden Age of Piracy. In keeping with the general indifference of the First Civilization, Jupiter didn't even wait for Connor to drop off the civilians of Davenport. When is life ever easy for Connor?
1. Chapter 1

_The set up for a story that jumped into my head as I replayed Black Flag this weekend. Time Travel shenanigans, no modern day OCs planned, Story will revolve primarily around Mary Read, Connor, and Edward Kenway but I plan to give some of the smaller characters a good bit of 'screentime.'_

 _Disclaimer: I very clearly do not own anything to do with the Assassin's Creed series._

* * *

Still timid buds peaked out from their branches. A rainfall had come by, coating the white and pink flowering trees in a light film, and so the buds were heavier than usual. For one the weight was too great. Its petals bent, spilling water onto the grass below. After a moment the bud righted itself, and even with a petal still out of place, you could not distinguish it from the buds around it. This is what Connor saw from the deck of his ship, the _Aquila_. There were other sights, and sounds to go with them but it was this one he took in as Myriam and Clipper discussed their guns.

"It's a damn killer, Clip. I'll give you that much," said Myriam as she leaned over the side of the ship. They were following the river all the way to sea and many fish were making the opposite trip. She spit a seed at one and watched the fish clamp its mouth around it. "Rips right through bone, doesn't stop at all. A little scary, if I'm honest. How long have you been working on this?"

Clipper laughed in his awkward way, as if he were afraid he didn't fully understand the joke and so wanted to leave himself an out. "Since I first saw a cork fly out of a bottle. I kept thinking how great that would work for a musket. But it wasn't until David explained to me how some metals expand if you get 'em under enough pressure and heat. Reckon he wasn't used to explaining his work to folks. Wouldn't talk to me unless I sat in front of him for near an hour."

Overhead, the sun shooed away the clouds, as if asking for enough time to dry the grass and whatever else the rain still clung to. With so warm an afternoon, it would not be long, thought Connor. He leaned back in his chair (foldable. One of Lance's few practical inventions). Last night had been painful. Ever since his fight with Lee, when that wooden board had pierced through his abdomen, Connor struggled with the basics. At a year old the wound still made eating, sleeping, even using the restroom leave him in agony. Often there would be blood. But right now, the ache was faint and so without its distraction, he felt his eyes grow heavy. Connor filled his nostrils with Spring before turning his head towards the wheel. "Mr Faulkner. Ms Carter. You have the ship," he called out.

"Aye, Captain!" Faulkner had a true sailor's voice. Whether cannon fire or squall, he could always be heard. It was one of the endearing things about him. Even his whispers could carry across a room. Then there was his beard. It was grey and peppered so that no matter how much he groomed, there was always something unkempt about Faulkner. "Ms Carter, you heard the captain."

"Yes, and I heard you too," said the forty-year-old. She smiled at Faulkner who gave her a disapproving look. It only encouraged you more. "They don't give you sailors in door voices, do they?"

"We say 'Aye' when we reply in the affirmative aboard a ship, Ms Carter," Faulkner corrected. "And we address superior officers as 'sir.'"

"Well what about me?" Dobby complained.

"What about you?" asked Faulkner, already tired of the assassin from New York.

"I'm no sir, so what do the men call me?"

"Loudmouth mostly," chimed in a teenage girl dressed like the sailors around her. Dobby laughed and shouted an oath at the teen. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"Ms Walston, you're aboard this ship as a favor to your mother and stepfather. You'll conduct yourself the same as any another sailor."

Connor watched the scene. He felt it was every bit as much a part of Spring as the rainfall (April Showers as the Englanders would say) of that morning. More of the pain in his stomach would not be long. And he could listen to his friends until it came. His tribe was gone. His father was dead as was Kanen'tó:kon and so many others. But here there was life. Connor could appreciate that much. There was suffering enough in the world without us inviting it into the few good moments in our lives.

"She's just excited, sir," a deckhand named Matthews joked. He was a freckled white man with brown hair he kept tied back at all times. "Her first taste of the open sea is only a few hours away."

That made Maria scoff. "Open sea? We're going to sail to New York and back. I wouldn't call that 'the open sea.'"

Every sailor within ear shot gave Maria a funny look. "Ms Walston, no journey out to sea is certain. Neptune's a fickle god at the best of times so I'll ask you to be mindful not to tempt him."

"Aye, sir!" the girl shouted in as clear a voice as she had. She was not a bad girl by any means and when she noticed the old man meant what he said, Maria abandoned her fun. There was none to be had at the expense of others, as her mother would often tell her.

More was said by the residents of Davenport and the Assassins Connor had trained but by then he was asleep. The sun on his face warmed him almost as much as the people around him. This trip was to be a holiday for them. Everyone had come. They were 'excited to play people of means' as David had said. That conversation was the last thought Connor had before dreaming of making arrows with his mother while Achilles and Haytham argued over what type of bird an eagle was. Connor smiled, content, for the first time in a long while.

Then the sun… blinked. One moment it was resting alongside clouds and the next it sat alone in the sky. No longer off at an angle either but almost directly overhead and making the day _hot_. Like the warmest New England July hot. The river too had changed. No longer was there land to cage it all in. No matter how far anyone looked all they could see was more water.

And the fish had all been replaced by dolphins!

Myriam cursed loud enough to wake Connor. The Assassin Master shot out of his chair forgetting for a moment the pain this would cause him and then suddenly realizing there was no pain at all. He touched the place that would always ached the most but felt only his hand pressing on his stomach. "Ms Carter," he said. "I will be taking the wheel. Please head below deck and verify we have our full manifest. See to it that every sailor is alert and that every cannon is fixed back into position."

"Will do, Connor," answered Dobby forgetting Naval customs. She had only taken a single step before white light surrounded the _Aquila_. It grew denser and denser, coalescing in the space just feet away from where Connor stood. Slowly, the light took shape becoming a tall bearded man wearing a toga and eagle shaped helmet. And if for no reason besides making the moment stranger, he seemed to be flickering in and out of focus.

"Oh good, I seemed to have worked it out after all. Juno looks to make her devices difficult to use on purpose," said the man.

"Who are you?" demanded Connor.

"You can call me Jupiter or Tinia if those names mean anything to you," he answered while looking around the ship as if inspecting it. "As to how I came to be here, that's too long a story and I'm pressed for time, Ratonhnhaké:ton." Connor raised an eyebrow at the mention of his name. "You've met Juno, haven't you? She asked you to join the Assassins, hide a special key for her?" Connor nodded but said nothing. His mind was racing, and he was struggling to keep down something like a roar. "Yes, I'm sorry about all that. I gave her too much free reign it seems. You don't need to know the specifics but centuries from now a descendant of yours will have sacrificed his life to stop a catastrophe. It was Juno's plan to engineer circumstances so that only a human's death could stop this calamity and a descendant of yours would be the only one capable of such a sacrifice. It is for this purpose she bid you hide that key.

"Juno, in time will come to be worshiped as a goddess. Her control over humanity will be absolute and the work I began will remain unfinished. You do not wish a world ruled by cruel gods, Ratonhnhaké:ton. And because your vision would further my own aims, I have brought you here to this time when you can realize the ambitions denied to you by circumstance." Jupiter began to flicker harder than before. His form bent as if being viewed through a glass cup. "This technology is promising. With Minerva's experiments this may all work yet." And with that Jupiter vanished.

For a full minute no one spoke, not even Faulkner who could usually be counted on to swear at the right times. It was so quiet, they could hear the goings on below deck where the other Assassins and Davenport residents were playing a jig. With all eyes on him, Connor spoke. "Dobby, I gave you an order," he said. Dobby stammered something between 'yes, sir' and 'aye, sir' but sounded like neither. "Myriam, please follow her. I have total confidence in your abilities as a hunter, but you have no experience with maintaining a ship. Clipper, head to the top and take your rifle. It will give you the best vantage point if we encounter belligerents."

"You think it likely, Captain?" whispered Faulkner into Connor's ear. "Encountering belligerents, I mean." The two men were now standing side by side as they have many times during the way with the British. Connor in his crisp blue uniform and Faulkner in his salty coat.

"I do not know what to think, Mr Faulkner," answered Connor truthfully. "But I do know work can clear the mind and calm the nerves of anxious men."

"Ourselves or the crew?" asked Faulkner. The two men smiled at each other.

* * *

"¿Que ves?" the Spanish captain, Don Juan Esteban de Ubilla, asked his first mate.

"No conozco la insignia, capitán," the man answered. "Pero me parece un mulatto que estar dando las ordenes."

The captain peered over the side of his ship at the strange vessel. It was quicker than a ship of that size had any right to be and under other circumstances de Ubilla would order his men to capture it. But his ship was too weighed down with gold for a long chase and passing oddities were how stories of shipwrecks began.

"¿Crees que son piratas?" asked the first mate. "No estamos lejo de Nassau."

"No con navío asi. Pero estamos en tiempos estrangero." Mendoza tapped the pistol he carried, something he did whenever lost in thought. "Disparenle, para que no se acerquen."

"¡Si, capitán!"

They were twelve ships strong, so the captain did not fear a straightforward attack. They had the numbers needed to weather that. Even if the English wanted to restart the war they'd need a fleet so big it'd be uncontrollable in a pursuit situation, and he'd be able to safely maneuver his ships back towards Havana under little threat. The real dangers were acts of God and the weird. If every month de Ubilla had spent at sea were laid next to each other they would map twenty uninterrupted years at the sea's mercy. In that time de Ubilla had learned that whatever cannot be controlled must be avoided. This ship with an unfamiliar ensign and mulatto captain was too great an unknown for him to want it near him.

de Ubilla had never heard the story of Peleus and Thetis on their wedding day.

* * *

A volley of cannon fire fell just short of the _Aquila_. "So much for saying hello," muttered Faulkner. He braced himself instinctively as some lucky cannonballs struck the side of the ship. "Why the hell would the Spanish fire on us? We're not still flying a British flag, are we? America and Spain are friends!"

Connor turned the wheel, moving them away from the Spanish convoy. "Friendships mean little to empires, but this is strange all the same. Perhaps Jupiter left us near Gibraltar and we have been mistaken for Barbary pirates."

"Still doesn't add up, Captain. Our flag's visible plain as day." Another cannonball struck the side of the ship. The old sailor stood to his full height and glared venom at the Spanish ships. "And they're a little small to be picking fights out here in the open. Only one third rate in the convoy by my count. The rest barely pass for fourth. The _Aquila_ 's seen worse than this lot."

"Be that as it may, I will not risk the lives of this crew or the civilians aboard over a few warning shots, Mr Faulkner."

"What about two pursuers?" Both Faulkner and Conner turned to look at Dobby. She pointed at two ships near the rear of the convoy. "They're breaking free of the formation."

"How many guns, Ms Carter?" asked Faulkner.

"Thirty, maybe a couple more."

"On each?"

"Looks like… Sir."

"Aye... They'll probably try to cut us off while the larger ships advance. Might even force us to fight on two fronts if they slow us down enough." The old sailor shook his head. Things were escalating beyond the point of no return. In the past, Spain had declared war over less. "Your orders, captain?"

Connor took a slow breadth. "We cannot commit to battle while there are civilians on board. The ships that pursue us must act in tandem to be successful. If we defeat one the other will not be able to prevent our escape. Ms Carter, what does the enemy's hull look like?"

"I don't know what you're asking me, Connor," Dobby admitted.

"It's hull, Ms Carter!" Faulkner all but shouted. "Has it got iron plating? About how thick is it? That sorta thing!"

"No iron plates," Dobby shouted back. "And I can't tell how thick it is. It looks boarded up in places. Like it just had some work done."

Faulkner nodded. "So she's seen action recently."

"That makes the decision for us," whispered Connor. There was no joy in killing but these men had forced his hand. "We will target that one."

"Line up right alongside her, captain?" asked Faulkner. "We'll weather her broadside much better than she'll weather ours and then it's straight sailing from there."

"We will make sure to position ourselves so that the enemy blocks their fleet's field of fire. Load the canons!"

Like the veteran crew they were, the sailors of the _Aquila_ went about their worked with practiced ease. Even Maria who had been with the crew through only one cold fire drill fell into place. She held her cleaning sponge draped over a wooded rod and waited for the shot to be loaded. Into the cannon's barrel went the bare end of her rod, first when the powder was inserted and again when the shot was loaded. Her job complete, Maria stepped back. She stole a single glance towards the helm of the ship where Connor stood and then chastised herself for it. She wasn't that skinny girl who needed him to fight her battles anymore.

* * *

"¿Pero que en el infierno hacen?" shouted de Ubilla. His first mate visibly blanched and had to be shaken by his commander before he found his voice. "¡Habla! ¿Eres mudo?"

"No se, capitán, no se," the man stammered.

After the flagship fired on the strange vessel, two young captains (both viscounts) had leapt into action. The month before last each had been humiliated by the pirate Thatch and so they were eager for any chance to prove themselves capable naval captains. This foreign ship with strange ensigns looked the perfect target.

"¿Como que no sabes? ¿No fuistes el quien repitió mis ordenes?" The Spanish captain shoved his first mate.

"Creo que son del Senor Echeverz," the first mate muttered weakly, but de Ubilla wasn't listening. He was staring past the cowering man to the _Aquila_. Guns across three decks, he realized, and they were all about to open fire. There was no saving whatever idiot captain had decided to sally forth.

"¡Maldicion!"

* * *

Below deck aboard a makeshift prison ship, Edward Kenway and Adéwalé sat chained to a metal rod across the floor. It had been more than a day since their imprisonment but with no windows neither could be sure of the passage of time. They were lucky as far as prisoners go having a full three by five feet to themselves. The rest were laid up almost on top of each other, chained to whatever happened to be nearby. It was, as is typical of prisons, hot with little light and the smell of other unwashed bodies suffocating you at night.

The two sat in silence, too preoccupied with their recent failures to make conversation or even pay their new living conditions any mind. Cannon fire would force their hand.

"Jaysus, what is that?!"

"Our escape, I think." Adéwalé tugged on his chains and jerked his head towards the bar. "Help me with this?"

"Aye." The two men forced their weight to one side before quickly shifting it to the other. The iron bar that held them gave a little with each repetition until the lock at its end shattered. Edward was the first to make it to his feet. Adéwalé was clutching his wrist as if nursing some injury. "Who'd attack a Spanish fleet so close to Havana?" the Welshman asked. "Seems almost suicidal."

"All the better for us," replied Adéwalé. "Some of the smaller ships will head back to shore for reinforcements."

"Meaning there'll be no ship fast enough to pursue," Edward grinned at his fellow prisoner. "We just need to grab one of the brigs." He offered his hand. Adéwalé seized it and pulled himself up to his feet. "Edward. Edward Kenway."

"Adéwalé. Now enough pleasantries. We've a ship to steal."

"Think these lads know their way around one?"

"Most are privateers from my reckoning. The Spanish king wanted to make a big show of hanging pirates."

Edward stifled a laugh. Cannons or no they still needed to be quiet. "So that's why they didn't just shoot us. And here I was thinking it was our charming company."

"You Englishmen talk a lot," observed Adéwalé.

"I'm _Welsh_ ," Edward insisted with mock outrage. "But I see your point. I take right, you take left? Most guards will have gone to help with the battle.

The pair moved over the unlit floor like specters. Neither guard no prisoner saw them slink across the ship's makeshift prison. The deck had been divided into three parts; the aftward compartment where the prisoners were held, the center where the guards ate and went about their day, and the forward compartment where the guard's supply of munitions were stored. On their first night as prisoners aboard this ship, the guards had made a grand show of cooking meals right outside the holding cell. They shouted things too, but none save Adéwalé spoke Spanish. It didn't matter in the end. With their stomachs gnawing away at them, every prisoner understood well enough. Which is why Edward now grinned with anticipation.

Fortune tonight favored him, he could see. There was cannon fire to mask his steps even if he lost his footing and the guard's held the only light in the room. Fools that they were, they held the lantern up in front of their faces so that their eyes mistook the room for brighter than it was. Beyond them was the closed door with only a slit to look through so there was never any line of sight between the guardsmen inside the cell and those outside. Drop them quick enough and there'd be no response, not until hours later when the next set of guards were scheduled to take over. By that point they'd have every prisoner ready to take the ship, but they would not need that long. One guard could be taken and made to shout for the others to come then they could make a beeline for the weapons room.

All this Edward realized as he and Adéwalé moved across the room.

* * *

Impossible fights were routine for the _Aquila_. Countless ships sat at the bottom of the North Atlantic, victims of the Ghost of the North Seas. Edward Kenway had designed her to have the best qualities of a frigate and ship of the line. By gun count, at sixty-eight, she was a third-rate ship and as capable as any to stand in the line of battle but by maneuverability and speed she matched the best frigates of her day. The first of the Spanish ships that came for her was no match. It's thirty-two guns were impressive only to other ships of its epoch. To the _Aquila_ 's iron sides, they were only a little more dangerous than the war sloops so beloved by the British.

At two hundred meters the Spanish ship, _El San Sébastien_ , opened fire with a full broadside. Her size allowed for easy maneuvering and her captain looked to take full advantage of that. _El San Sébastien_ cut across the water like a knife, positioning itself quicker than any three gundeck ship But the _Aquila_ was no man o' war. She was much smaller, and her weight more intelligently distributed. _El San Sébastien_ wasn't nearly quick enough to fire and move before the _Aquila_ could respond. One broadside would be all she'd be allowed.

 _El San Sébastien_ had meant to fire from much further away and pepper the larger ship while her sister vessel did the same, but she did not have the wind at her back. The _Aquila_ did and with that boost in speed the already fast ship was able to force the engagement from much closer than _El San Sébastien_ was comfortable engaging from. Furthermore, the smaller ship could never move in quite the direction she wanted as the _Aquila_ would shift her own position and force the smaller ship straight into the wind. This negated the slight speed advantage _El San Sébastien_ thought she would enjoy over the larger _Aquila._

"Fire!" shouted Connor at the top of his lungs. The many guns and carronades of the _Aquila_ 's port side spat out furious cast-iron. Not one missed their mark. Aboard _El San Sébastien_ men were split in two, cannons were reduced to useless clumps of hot metal, and wood splintered in every direction. She had her sails but there were not enough men to man what cannons she had left, no matter how her officers shouted. Before there could be any rally the _Aquila's_ guns were reloaded. "Fire!" shouted Connor again.

 _El San Sébastien_ and what was left of her crew were ripped apart in that second volley.

"She didn't like that one," whispered Faulkner as he watched the enemy ship stop dead in the water. "That's her mainsail coming down now, captain. Think we got most of the crew too." _El San Sébastien_ gave a long sad groan as her topsail slammed into its topgallant. The two collapsed onto the side of the ship and remained there, held in place by their rigging. Nothing else on the ship moved. "Poor bastards."

"Shit," cursed Dobby. "Connor, they're forming a line! And that other one is coming up behind us."

"Get those portside cannons ready!" The crew of the _Aquila_ could be counted on to perform such obvious tasks without being told explicitly to do but Faulkner knew standards needed to be maintained aboard ships. Everyone had their place even if at times it felt redundant and his job at that moment was to make sure no matter the fog of war his sailors understood all of their captain's orders.

There was an odd thumping noise from the fleet. Dobby trained her spyglass onto it and saw half a dozen shells fired into the sky. "What the fuck?" The shells arced until they over the _Aquila_ and the second attacking ship. "Connor?" the Assassin managed before Faulkner seized her and pulled her down towards him.

"MORTARS!" Connor and he shouted loud enough they were heard even bellow deck.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading. Leave as scathing or friendly a review as you like._


	2. Chapter 2

**_A few notes_**

 ** _I forgot to mention that I'm making the Aquila a three-mast frigate. It makes her more closely resemble heavy frigates like the USS Constitution._**

 ** _I decided that Edward's crew wouldn't be spread throughout half a dozen ships. Instead they were all on a makeshift prison boat._**

 ** _This is happening near the South Eastern tip of Florida._**

 ** _Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed._**

* * *

Mortars burst overhead, filling the sky with smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Shrapnel blanketed the ocean, the closest thing to hail the Caribbean was likely to see. Connor watched the exploding shells, took note of their trajectory and shape, and then let his Eagle Senses map out the likely impact area.

Perhaps it was because his Sense was so accustomed to tracking British firing lines or perhaps it was the long slow arch of these Spanish mortars, but Connor found it… easy. Seeing where he would need to position the _Aquila_ , that is. Which is to say not very much at all. The mortars and their shrapnel were not centered around his ship. They would, of course, rip through the _Aquila's_ sails if Connor took no action but they were a greater threat to the second of the two ships that had tried to give chase. Why, wondered Connor as he turned the wheel and barked an order that Faulkner dutifully repeated (even as Dobby shouted for him to let go of her).

The answer came to him when the last of the mortars crashed into the water.

"Bloody fucking mortars," said Faulkner, the disbelief obvious in his voice. Dobby shoved the large sailor off herself while muttering how the last one at least too her out first. Faulkner didn't seem to hear. He turned to his captain, hoping he could help make sense of the Spanish attack. "Who the fuck uses mortars at sea? They take up twice the space of a carronade and are only useful about half as often. I know the Spanish navy's run by lackwits, but this is too much!"

"Do you see where the mortars fell, Mr Faulkner?"

Faulkner frowned. He looked past Connor, calling upon his own Sense to show him what the younger man expected him to know. The mortars formed a long streak across the water and the _Aquilla_ fell between it and the Spanish fleet. More mortars were coming too and like before the _Aquilla_ was not their intended target. "Yes… We're being corralled." Faulkner traced his forefinger and thumb over his beard. "How do you want to play this sir? If we try and sail through the cloud it'll be a long while before we're clear of danger. And that's assuming our sails hold up… But if we keep on this course we'll run straight into the firing range of every one of those Spanish ships."

"I believe that to be our best bet," said Connor as he altered course again.

"Any reason, captain?" There was sure to be one, but first mates should always check least they follow their captain on a fool's errand.

"I have been watching their signal flags. There does not seem to be one supreme commander for the fleet. Whenever the third-rate ship changes her signal flags they are not repeated in full. Rather, a handful of ships comply while a fourth rate sends up her own set of flags and it's only then that the whole of the fleet moves." Faulkner laughed. Connor looked at him with concern. "Is something wrong, Mr Faulkner?"

"Not at all, captain, not at all," the old sailor replied. "Just marveling at how much time you must have spent with deGrasse to be picking up on something like that so quickly."

The Assassin Master did not smile. "I believe it was our skirmishing with the _Hinchinbrook_ that forced that trick on me. It's how I believe she was able to stay one step ahead of the merchant fleets."

"Aye," Faulkner sighed. "Not thirty guns on her and she still managed to wreak havoc on the Spanish."

"Sometimes the captain counts for a full battery."

"Let's hope that holds true today too." Faulkner clapped the younger man on the back.

"Hey, Connor," said Dobby. She had the spyglass pressed to her eye again and there was a clear look of apprehension across her face. Today was determined to be as eventful as possible. May you live in interesting times indeed. "We've got more ships coming. But I don't think they're Spanish."

"English, Turk, Italian?" asked Faulkner. He stepped away from his captain and towards Dobby. "What colors are they flying?" he asked as he took the spyglass from her.

"Black," was all Dobby said and it was exactly what Faulkner saw as he looked eastward to the coming ships.

"A schooner, a brig, and a frigate… All sporting just enough guns to have a nasty bite without sacrificing speed." Faulkner passed the spyglass back. "Pirates. And a motley looking bunch at that. Maybe that Jupiter fellow did drop us off by Gibraltar and these Spanish lackwits mistook us for privateers."

"We are privateers." The impacting mortars created a light mist as they sent more and more water droplets into the air. It was oddly relaxing. Something like listening to a powerful storm from inside a wooden cabin. Connor breathed in the salty air and found it focused his mind a little. Questions still buzzed in his head but there was now a clear order to them. "Why would pirates challenge a military convoy? The risk alone would be grounds for a mutiny and there would be little hope of taking any of these ships as prizes. Even the smallest ships in that fleet carry too many men to take prisoner."

"Should we be questioning our good fortune, captain?" chided Faulkner.

"If not us then who?" The _Aquila_ made what was for a frigate a sharp turn. It now headed straight for the convoy. "Besides, do you really want to be indebted to pirates so mad they would challenge a Spanish man o' war in open waters?"

Faulkner chuckled. "No offense, sir, but isn't that your plan? And I remember you once challenging a man o' war with a lot less than these rogues are about to." They said nothing else to each other. Hopefully their luck held, each man thought although not for themselves. Fate had given them enough chances and it would have been rude to ask for yet another. But the civilians on board were a different story and Faulkner hoped that for their sake Connor's gambit saw them through this. "Think it too late to become a church going man?"

"Duncan is below deck, and I need you here, friend."

"Aye."

"If you two are done whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears," interrupted Dobby. "That ship that was following us? It hasn't stopped. And I think it's gaining on us." She bit her lip. "I reckon it means to ram us."

 _El San Sébastien's_ sister ship, _Alta Gracia_ , had found her nerve. Her captain stood erect, his eyes two milky beads of hate. There was such a determination to him that his many layers of fat (a reliable mark of European nobility) looked almost dangerous. He sailed _Alta Gracia_ forward, possessed by a vigor he'd only heard about in old stories. Mortars did nothing to deter his crazed dash towards the _Aquila._ Happily he braved them to put the wind behind _Alta Gracia's_ sails. Crates of precious tobacco too he jettisoned, so many that they clearly marked the path he had taken through the hail of mortars. All for the chance to clip an eagle's wings.

"Dobby," Connor said slowly. "Climb up on the mast. When the enemy ship gets close-"

"Jump over and do what I'm good at?" she suggested with a wink.

"Take out her sails, if you can," replied her master. "It would be much less of a hassle than having to kill however many men man her and I – the men aboard that ship. They are not to blame for their commander's decisions. I already loathe that we must kill so many to win our escape"

"You're still such sweetie," the older woman cooed.

"Ms Carter! That is this ship's captain and our new Mentor!"

However true, it was enough to quiet the small bounce in the woman's step. She looked from Faulkner to Connor the latter of who opened his mouth to speak. She didn't let him. "I'll get it done, Connor," she said in a soft voice.

Not sure what to say, Connor mouthed 'thank you.' It brought the smile back to Dobby's face.

There were not so many feet to the _Aquila's_ mizzenmast, at least not to an Assassin, so Dobby was able to position herself quickly. She was lucky she had taken so quickly to Connor's training as there was no top on the mizzenmast to stand on. Dobby was made to rely on her own balance to steady herself in preparation for her mission. Clipper was across from her, half way down the ship, his rifle at the ready. He looked professional to Dobby but a little awkward as if the length of the weapon restricted how well it could be wielded and he were forcing compliance from it.

She probably looked no better, Dobby realized and began counting the seconds before the attacking vessel would be near enough for her to jump over. "Five, four, three," she whispered to herself as the _Alta Gracia's_ figurehead became easier and easier to see. "Two…" The _Alta Gracia_ crashed into the _Aquila_ , rattling everyone on board. The smaller ship then slid along the side of the larger one placing her cannons within a dozen meters or less of the _Aquila._ But then Connor gave the wheel a hard turn into the smaller ship before turning again except in the opposite direction. The sudden movement brought Dobby close enough to act and then place the _Aquila_ at such an angle that her stern was almost perpendicular to the _Alta Gracia_. "ONE!" shouted Dobby. She cleared the gap, landing gracefully… and in front of an amazed Spanish soldier.

"Not bad, eh?" joked Dobby before yanking the musket away from him. She gave him a smirk as she tossed it into the sea. "Leave," she ordered forgetting the man likely did not speak English. When he did not move Dobby drew her pistol and repeated the order. He misunderstood a second time and lay himself across the top of the _Alta Gracia's_ mainmast. "Close enough," decided Dobby. The sound of cannons firing somewhere below her spoiled her jovial mood. "Christ that was loud." She ran past the frightened soldier and along the ship's sails. From her belt she withdrew a bottle filled with a thick black liquid which she smeared across as much of the sails as she could. Then she took out a second bottle filled with a purple and black liquid. This she used to trace a path all the way back to the soldier on the mast's top. He looked at Dobby with inquisitive eyes.

"Sorry, love. It's this or I start stabbing you all," she said with a shrug before placing a lit match against this second liquid. "I'd- uh- I'd be somewhere else if I was you." Realization slowly dawned on the soldier and he bustled to his feet. "Yeah, that's the spirit. Hope everything works out alright!" Dobby jumped into the waters below her. She allowed herself one look to appreciate her handiwork and was pleased to see the fire was a lively one, even bigger than expected. Then she turned towards the _Aquila_ and began the trek back. Mortars still were incoming, and Connor could not simply stop his ship for a lone crewman during a battle, so she needed to be quick.

Deciding a couple meters of water might lessen the risk of a lucky shot killing her, Dobby dove deeper into the sea. But her eyes were unaccustomed to the sting of salt water and forced themselves shut almost immediately. She gasped and only had just enough self-control to keep herself from swimming back to the surface. How stupid it would be to die over something so ridiculous crossed Dobby's mind. She tentatively opened an eye but again the irritation was too much. Her Sense would have to suffice. It mapped a weaving path for her, that saw her come up for a breadth only once, and each time pulled her below water within half a second. She didn't dare open her eyes during those moments. For Assassins like Connor, Eagle Vision was no harder than focusing in on what the friend next to you was saying. For Assassins like Dobby, those born with no great affinity for The Ones Who Came Before, Eagle Vision was like trying to hear what strangers were whispering about two tables over. She would need to remain focused.

A faint light appeared to her, many meters away. She chased it, willing it to become brighter and easier for her follow. The water carried the sound of the mortars to her ears, giving her fair warning of which way the coming shockwaves would move her. Dobby swam for what felt like hours but couldn't have been more than a few moments. Her heart beat against her chest, desperate to keep up. Finally, when it felt as if the muscle might burst, her hand struck something solid and Dobby opened her eyes. She emerged from the water to see the _Aquila,_ Faulkner, and his scraggly beard peering over the side of the ship. His hand was outstretched.

"Gods, woman, you must be part fish swimmin' like that!"

"Part shark more like," Dobby shouted back before scrambling up the side of the ship. "Fish don't have so many stabby bits." She fell into place beside the two men and hoped to catch her breath before either took notice. "Good job, Dobby," she said to herself when she realized neither man would. "You looked sharp out there!" Connor turned his face to look at her. They exchanged grins.

"I hope you are ready to do that a few more times," he said. "Those pirate ships seem to have made up their minds to attack the Spanish."

Dobby laughed. "And you've decided if they're helping us, we can't leave them to fend for themselves."

"That frigate's got forty guns on her," volunteered Faulkner. He did not sound enthused. "With two ships to help, she can do some real damage."

"And she is attacking on the same flank as we are," said Connor. "Even if all they provide is a distraction for the smaller ships, it will mean wecan concentrate our fire without fear of leaving ourselves exposed. The crew will not need to divide itself between port and starboard cannons."

"You change your tune quick, Connor," said Dobby as she took the spyglass from Faulkner. "'If not us than who?' indeed."

"This frigate may be our greatest stroke of luck," said Connor with a small shrug. "And was it not you who once asked me to be more positive?" Dobby laughed and trained her eyes on the increasingly chaotic Spanish line.

"Her figurehead looks familiar," mumbled Faulkner before pushing the thought from his mind. He should focus on the fleet in front of them first and passing oddities second.

* * *

Adéwalé pressed his newly acquired sword against the neck of the Spanish guard. He was on top of the man, with his knee pressed hard against the whimpering man's sternum. Cruelty was curling the ends of Adéwalé's mouth into a smile. "No me des complejos," he ordered. The guard complied.

"Pathetic little sod, aren't you?" said Edward. The Welshman made a show of admiring the pistol he'd looted. He holstered before waling over to Adéwalé and the guard. "What's wrong? You and your mates were talking so bold last night. Did something change, hm? Lost your nerve?" The now free prisoners snickered. When the Spanish guard mustered enough courage to look away from Adéwalé, he saw their toothy grins gleam in the dim light. Like rats waiting until that last terrible moment when an animal stopped moving before descending on it.

"I don't think he speaks English, Edward," said Adéwalé.

"Aye? Well let him know if he doesn't want to end up like his friend he'll do exactly as we ask."

"¿Ves estos hombres? A cada le gustariare verte murir. Pero te necesitamos para algo." Adéwalé took his knee off the man and stood. "¡Levantate!" Again the man complied, his eyes darting every which way not knowing which threat to focus on. A sudden word from Edward almost made him jump.

"Now tell your mates to come quick. This fella here had a nasty fall and needs to see a doctor."

"Llama a tus amigos. Dile que este se ha desmayado y necesita ayuda," whispered Adéwalé. He was so close to the Spaniard, Adéwalé's lips all but grazed the stubble on the man's face. "No trates de ser héroe." It was the last command Adéwalé would give him and the last he'd carry out. After leading his fellow guardsmen into an ambush the Spaniard lost the will to sail or soldier. He slunk into a corner of the cell and didn't dare move.

A tall bearded man was the first through the door followed by a stocky one who carried his musket at port arms. Edward throttled the first and Adéwalé skewered the second. Beyond them more men sat and stood largely oblivious to the commotion happening a few feet away. They were too confused by the sound of cannons and excitement above deck. With enough patience they could all have picked off one at a time, but it was not to be. Edward now had two pistols and their temptation proved too great. He held both pistols out in front of him, selected a pair of especially oblivious looking guardsmen, and pulled both triggers. Their heads burst open and even Adéwalé (who was about to hiss something venomous at Edward) was taken by how impressive a feat that was.

"Meant to catch the second on the temple, not the ear," said Edward. He dropped both pistols and drew the sword he'd pilfered from the now cowering guard. "Let's see if my swordplay is as rusty."

"You're a cocksure cully," said Adéwalé. He wasn't sure if he meant it as compliment or insult. Edward took it as the former and beamed. Then he went off at a full sprint towards the Spanish. Because a poor plan executed confidently was better than no plan at all, Adéwalé threw himself into the fray as well. The pirates would eventually but not before they saw how little trouble the odd Welshman and the severe African were having. Three soldiers came at Edward, each swinging their sword and expecting for at least one of them to strike the escaped prisoner. Instead, Edward parried one sword into another sending both soldiers stumbling into each other while the last soldier was forced to cut his stroke short as to not injure his comrades. It was this one Edward hit with the hilt of his sword, breaking the soldier's nose. Now panicking, the soldier was too distracted to see that Edward had pulled back just enough to slash with the sharp end of the blade. Which Edward did, killing the Spanish soldier and impressing the surviving two enough that they reconsidered challenging him again.

But by now the pirates had seen enough. They would throw in with Edward and Adéwalé. For now, each added to themselves as pirates always did when they accepted a new captain. Melee soon broke out across the two compartments. Edward and Adéwalé fighting with their stolen weapons and the pirates fighting with broken chair legs and whatever else they could get hold of. Many Spanish soldiers found themselves clubbed to death as they searched in vain for ways to communicate surrender. It was a bloody, brutal quarter hour that thankfully did not drag on longer. However cruel imprisonment had made the newly freed pirates, they all understood the need for haste and neither Edward nor Adéwalé were inclined to tolerate an excess of sadism.

The armory was breached. Edward did not even bother looking for which soldier carried the right key. He brought his foot against the door, kicking with every muscle in his leg and back, until its lock broke. Few noticed as they were busy looting the corpses that now littered the room. They were searching for the same things as Edward (better clothing, boots, weapons) but less intelligently. Adéwalé came to stand beside Edward when the lock finally gave. "You don't do things by half measures, do you?" he asked with raised eyebrows. Edward flashed him a grin and Adéwalé began to wonder how the Welshman had survived so long. "Let's have it. If we're to take a ship with so few numbers, we'll need more than a few pistols and muskets."

Edward agreed and beckoned for Adéwalé to follow him. "I'm hoping to find something flammable. Not enough for a big fire, mind. Just enough to make a lot of smoke." A volley of cannon went off on the deck above them. They stopped their conversation to listen for a response. When it came it sounded as if this ship was not the intended target. Edward said a small prayer of thanks. He did not want his escape to be marred by cannons ripping into the side of the ship as they fled. "As I was saying-"

"We'll light a fire but make sure it's more smoke than flame and then throw it through the hatch," said Adéwalé before Edward could continue. "Clever. The smoke will make it harder to see and the Spanish will rush to grab their hoses to deal with the fire." He clapped Edward on the shoulder and gave him a rare smile. "You've a good head on your shoulders even if you don't pay it much mind."

"The head's there to make the dreams of the heart reality," replied Edward. "Let's get those boys armed. If everything goes according to plan-" It wouldn't. "-we'll have half our lot through that hatch before the panic stops. Then it's butcher's work from there."

Everyone was outfitted. Edward donned the robes of the late Walpole and added some strong leather to them, giving them a more mercenary look that Edward thought an upgrade. Adéwalé found a proper belt and scabbard for his sword and a horn to hold gunpowder in for his pistol. The crew was as lucky, finding enough equipment to make them look like a competent boarding party. Grappling hooks, muskets fixed with bayonets, and swords, everything they would need to storm the ship. It was then that Edward addressed his new crew for the first.

"Oy, lads! Listen here!" he began. "You don't owe me your allegiance, but you do owe me your lives. There was a noose at the end of this holiday to Spain and there might still be for any man who can't fend for himself. Now my friend and I can. You all saw him cut up our jailers like they were a fat goose. All but ripped apart one with just his hands. Can each of you do that? Don't be shy, lads, we've all got our gifts in this world. And you know what yours look to be to me? Sailing. You've the look of men who could keep a ship afloat no matter what Neptune's mood. The kind my friend and I are in need of. Now there's half a dozen ships out there perfect for… privateering and I mean to have one. And I mean to have you for my crew. Will ye have me as captain, lads?"

There was loud cheering from the men and a look of skepticism from Adéwalé. He considered both that Edward insisted on calling him friend and that the Welshmen had all but declared himself captain. He would discuss it with him later. Now, there was a ship to steal. "Save your cheering for when we're at port. There's who knows how many ships out there firing on this fleet and they'll be just as like to turn their guns on us."

"Aye," agreed Edward. "There's too many tons of brazilwood in this ship's hold for her to outrun anyone. We'll need a smaller ship. But we still need to clear the remaining decks first." Edward shared his plan with the crew, each man nodding along and forgetting their anger with Adéwalé over his rebuke. They found what Edward needed in the kitchen space. Cooking oil was spread across several bottles and in those bottles rags were stuffed. Edward's Eagle Sense told him just the right arc to lob the bottles in and which one to let explode and create enough of a fire for it look dangerous. He was, of course mindful of the powder stores and the fact the Spanish were loading cannons.

It was here luck turned against Edward and Adéwalé. Once the smoke had thickened and the Spanish begun shouting in a panic, the pair grabbed a handful of their crew to join them in storming the upper deck. Edward was the first through the hatch, followed by Adéwalé, and then the others. The expectation had been that the Spanish would secure their cannons while they dealt with the fire, minimizing the possibility for things to go catastrophically wrong. But this was not what the Spanish did. The gunnery officer, acting under the captain's explicit orders, had told each team to remain in place while the auxiliaries handled the fire. Too much depended being able to sustain their current rate of fire.

Perhaps it was a lack of experience or the urgency of battle or the panic caused by the smoke (or a combination of all them. That was how life liked to play it.), but one team did not drive a wet sponge though the barrel of their cannon. So in that cannon, a single ember survived until it came time to set the second charge which of course became lit on contact and burst like it would during a normal cycle of operation. But there was no cannonball for it act against, nor was any member of that cannon's team ready for it to go off. The man who was preparing to load the next cannonball had his hands seared off, while another had his leg shattered as the war machine recoiled. In his hand had been a lantern and it flew away from him, landing on a powder keg.

The explosion ripped through the deck. That same one Edward had just brought his crew onto.

* * *

 ** _Thank you for reading. Sorry to end on a cliffhanger. This seemed like the most natural place to seperate this chapter from the next._**

 ** _Next chapter will conclude the battle with the Treasure Fleet. Meant for it to end here but I'd rather keep the word count for each chapter in the 4k zone._**

 _ **Andreas_Corelli: Thank you for the kind review! I'm glad someone likes my writing style XD**_


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